Broken Love
by bavaria44
Summary: How could something this beautiful be a crime punishable by hanging? He wants me, Alfred realized, he loves me, not as brothers love each other but as lovers do. /HumanAU;UsCan;Another one of my Love&War fics, this time set in the French and Indian War/
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me. Thank you my dear Schauspielerinnen for beta-editing.

Author's notes/Warnings: There will be war and love and blood. Also, this is my very first _real_ yaoi-story, so be gentle.

* * *

**Broken Love**

**Chapter 1**

* * *

MY Spectre around me night and day  
Like a wild beast guards my way;  
My Emanation far within  
Weeps incessantly for my sin.

'A fathomless and boundless deep,  
There we wander, there we weep;  
On the hungry craving wind  
My Spectre follows thee behind.

William Blake

A young man's blue eyes slowly opened.

The war ground on in the north, back and forth with little gain. The Assembly had been reconvened and Father had gone to another meeting with the townspeople. The brothers lay together in silence in Matthew's canopied bed, dyed in candlelight.

"You are beautiful," Alfred told his brother when they were alone and hidden from the world. "From heat to toe, every part of you is beautiful." Immediately, he rebuked himself for saying something so stupid.

Matthew looked straight at him. "Hush, you idiot." His voice was flowing amber, liquid with his French accent. "If Father knew, he would…"

"Think us sick." Alfred worked at keeping his senses together. On late nights, however, he wanted to be inside Matthew so badly his body hurt.

Matthew frowned. "Hang us both." After a heart beat, he added, "This is pure madness. What if he has got eyes upon us? What if he suspects something already?"

"What if he has an army of owls spying on us?" Alfred cocked his head and laughed aloud.

Matthew's frown deepened. "This is no jest."

"Oh, I am utterly serious," Alfred said, feigning Arthur's voice.

Matthew studied his brother's face. "He hates me," he whispered, suddenly panicky. "He's afraid I won't meet his expectations."

Alfred scoffed and shook his head. "He is slow in the head and has anger issues. He can toss a mean face, but that is all." He gave a pause; in the soft yellow light, Matthew's blue, blue eyes made him look both feminine and shy. How could something this beautiful be a crime punishable by hanging? Images started to drift into his mind, filthy and unhindered. Alfred imagined fucking his little brother but tried to remain calm and nonchalant. Nonetheless, he could feel his cock getting hard. "No, he does not frighten me," he announced and kissed Matthew on the tip of his nose. "And neither should he frighten you."

"The things we do…" Matthew's fearful expression said it all. "It is folly, Alfred. Folly."

Alfred touched Matthew's chest and pushed him gently into the sheets. "A folly done for love," he purred, eyes half lidded.

Matthew smiled in disbelief and his heart did a little flip in his chest.

"If Father knew," Alfred continued as he lowered his head, "you wouldn't be here now, with me, would you? And me," he grinned, "I wouldn't be…," and kissed Matthew on his neck, "…doing…," and pulled up Matthew's vest and kissed him on his bare stomach, "…this," and discovered his hard cock beneath the thick fabric.

Alfred lifted his eyes and the two smiled at one another.

Matthew pouted. "Oh, you are so clever."

"Besides, I will tell him to go bugger himself with a hot poker the next time he treats you like an idiot child."

"Don't make waves. Don't rock the boat," Matthew replied and kissed Alfred.

Alfred kissed him back and moved a hand between Matthew's legs.

At first, Matthew resisted, batting Alfred's hand away and murmuring in fast French. But then his protests became whimpers and his breathing got heavier.

Alfred unsnapped the flap of his brother's breeches and slid further, down to the flesh below his belly. Matthew's skin was warm silk beneath his fingers.

This time Matthew didn't stop him.

Alfred leaned closer. "Is this alright?" He whispered right in Matthew's ear.

Matthew nodded. The boy was wet and eager. "Hurry," he urged, between kisses, as his fingers went to Alfred's waist. "Oh, hurry, hurry." He fumbled with Alfred's flap, but his brother was quicker. When Alfred's thumb brushed against his foreskin, he stiffened.

Alfred gripped Matthew's cock and began to stroke it with slow, loose strokes. At the sight of Matthew's parted lips, fluttering eyes, and listening to his harsh gasps, he could feel the heat rising inside him, a terrible sweet heat burning in his belly.

_Can we truly love,_ Alfred wondered. No, he didn't want to know the answer. Some things he would rather not know. Matthew wanted to be with him more often, he had told him, _I do miss you... between the sheets,_ one night after they made love. Alfred had lain beside him, Matthew's head pillowed against his chest, his groin aching with sweet soreness...

"Al-Alfred...," Matthew said, part moan, part yelp, and wrinkled up his boyish face.

Alfred knew that face and loved it. Blond hair, white skin, and eyes so blue they seemed violet. You could drown in them. And Alfred had. His hand moved faster.

One hand pressed flat on Alfred's back, the other one twisting sheets, gasps and muffled shrieks of pleasure were coming from Matthew. It was awful and amazing; Alfred's hand was clumsy and frantic and inept and the whole scene was rather vaguely comical, and Matthew exploded at the end.

Still out of breath, Matthew touched Alfred's face and said, "I am lost without you." He kissed him, a light kiss, the merest brush of his lips on Alfred's. "I am not whole without you."

Alfred made no reply, save with his eyes. There was hunger in his eyes. Alfred could feel his brother tremble as he slid his arm around him to turn him over. He kissed him again, Matthew's mouth opened for his tongue. He kissed him, kissed him hard until Matthew moaned, and pushed down his breeches.

Matthew murmured about the risk, the danger, about Arthur finding them like this, about God's wrath. Alfred never heard him, he put his finger into Matthew's mouth and Matthew sucked. When Alfred put his finger inside him, his feeble hands curled into fists. "Quickly," Matthew was whispering and whimpering again. "Alfred, oh, Alfred..."

Alfred added another finger and kissed Matthew on his shoulder, on his back, on his thigh. Matthew murmured incoherently and pounded against the pillow. So he kissed him again on his back and pulled out his fingers and licked Matthew's secret wetness, on and on until his chin and Matthew's puckered flesh were both soaked. Matthew gave a soft moan and shuddered.

Alfred undid his own breeches and climbed up and roughly pushed Matthew's bare white legs apart. One hand he slid up his thigh and grabbed onto a butt cheek. He spit in his free hand and covered his cock with the saliva.

"Quickly, brother, quickly, do it now, do me now..." Matthew's hand helped Alfred to guide him. "Yes," Matthew said as Alfred thrust into him. "Yes, my brother, my Alfred, yes, like that, yes, have me, have me..."

Alfred kissed Matthew's nape, kissed his ear, and stroked his lengthy blond hair. He had lost himself in Matthew's body. He could feel his brother's heart beating in time with his own, he could feel Matthew's warmth and wetness and his seed where they were joined.

* * *

That night, after their Father had returned, Alfred got very drunk. The streets were rising and falling with masses of people. Alfred was lying in bed while the ceiling moved like the sea and their Father was reading a pamphlet. Matthew waited, afraid to breathe. When Arthur Kirkland read to the end, he folded the pamphlet and stared at the cover page for a long moment. Then Arthur's chilly eyes fell upon Matthew and he took a sip of his cup of green leaf tea.

Alfred thought that the only way he could ever keep Matthew safe would be to run away and join the army. Perhaps right away, or very, very soon. Alfred was old enough.

This scenario was also scary, however. He imagined every possibility and saw himself facing the Frogs at Fort Beauséjour: teeth clenched, eyes narrowed, ready to shoot and slay; saw himself pulling a musket; saw himself riding a strong bay horse in the van of an army of redcoats; even saw himself walking toward the enemy with a knife and a tomahawk in his hands. Every image was as real as breakfast.

At the first light of the morning, Alfred woke up sullen. Matthew was gone. He left a goodbye note for him. "I will take up the quill and sign up," Matthew wrote, "Pour Nouvelle France."

* * *

Alfred stared at the cyanide sky, the stars, steady and guiding, were barely visible through the gathering clouds.

_The stars smiled down on us back then._

"If we want to advance, we have to take our chances. Strike now, I say, swiftly from the shadows," Arthur whispered, his green eyes fixed on a small patch of forest in front of them. "They will all be dead by the time they know what hit them."

They had been lying here, waiting here for an eternity, screening the horizon for the invisible enemy. Alfred hurt, he was cold and hungry. "So... is this where I die for America?"

Arthur gave Alfred a cold look. "That is why I am here, Alfred. To make sure you don't."

"That is a consolation." Alfred nodded. He gave himself a moment to look at the stars again and inhaled deeply.

_The stars smiled down on us back then, Matthew. _

"Do you ever think about him?" Alfred exchanged a stone-faced look with Arthur. "About Matt…"

"I know whom you meant." Arthur fell silent for a long moment. Then he softened and found himself unsteady as he spoke far more honestly than he ever had wanted to. "I remember his name. I remember his face. He was family just as you are. And yet…," he paused, searching for words. "Here we are."

As much as Alfred had tried, he couldn't read Arthur's mind. But…_This is it, _Arthur's eyes were telling him. _This is how it tastes like. Betrayal._

"Alfred, don't you dare ask me where we went wrong. We did not, your brother did. So quit looking at me like that."

"Like what?" Alfred asked, puzzled.

"You know like what."

Alfred didn't know.

"The honor it cost me, the shame... Christ...!" Arthur swore under his breath.

The moment was broken by the sound of a distant thunder. Alfred jolted but Arthur gratefully turned his attention to it. "It is going to rain," Arthur observed. Then he looked over his shoulder. "This is an army of redcoats and country men here, and a defiant one but still. My redcoats will fight. But your fishers dropped their nets, picked up their muskets and came to seek glory. What will they do when the enemy charges? Will they fight?"

"Aye, Sir." Alfred touched his brows with his knuckles. "Many may die and run… but they will fight."

"Mayhaps you're right." Arthur shifted onto his knees. "Keep your memories in your heart and your enemy in your sight, Alfred."

Arthur took his musket and had been on his feet already when he squatted down to Alfred and grabbed him by the arm. "Pray tell you will not let your heart lead you into folly."

Alfred shook his head. "You worry too much."

Arthur looked toward the hidden enemy camp. "I despise them," he said softly. "Oh God, how I despise them. Every bloody Crapaud deserves to die."

And together, they took off, dashing across the narrow strip of dark green field, leaving their life-saving foxholes behind.

To be continued...

Bavaria


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me. Thank you my dear Schauspielerinnen for beta-editing.

* * *

**Broken Love**

**Chapter 2**

* * *

'HE scents thy footsteps in the snow  
Wheresoever thou dost go,  
Thro' the wintry hail and rain.  
When wilt thou return again?

'Dost thou not in pride and scorn  
Fill with tempests all my morn,  
And with jealousies and fears  
Fill my pleasant nights with tears?

William Blake

All was quiet. The enemy was asleep. A morning mist hovered over the French camp. A barn owl fed at the base of a tall fir. A thunder, low and rolling, broke the stillness. The bird stopped feeding, stirred, looked about uneasily, and then swooped away soundlessly.

At another roll of the thunder the French commander woke. The colonel got out of his tent, his movements stiff and uncoordinated from sleep, and pulled on his waistcoat.

Shadows, two dozens of them, stepped out as one from the surrounding trees. Behind the fir, a figure in the darkness carrying a musket moved from shadow to shadow. Alfred pressed close against the nearest tree and squinted at the Frog who was barking commands. Alfred listened analytically though he didn't understand a word. Then his eyes fell upon Arthur.

Arthur put on a smile. "We tracked them down, those bastards," he told Alfred, his voice low and tetchy. "Now we will kill them all." His grin widened with every word. "A walk in the park."

"A walk in the park," Alfred echoed.

"Remember, Alfred, speed is the key."

_Three shots; a good marksman can fire three shots per minute. That's all it takes,_ Alfred thought to himself. _Speed is the key._ He clasped the musket, his Brown Bess, firmly and wondered, why was it that his hand was so steady, the gun in his grip as if it was an extension of his limb, the one best friend – _I'm worthless without her; she's worthless without me. _

The instant the French commander had hid behind bushes to take a piss, Arthur spoke firmly to his lieutenants. "Alfred, there," he pointed. "Antonio, there. Gilbert, with me."

The uniformed men nodded.

"Epaulets first. Gilbert and I will kill the officers," Arthur said in a hoarse voice. His eyes darted around, absorbing the terrain, looking for advantage. "Tony, the artillery, I want their cannons."

The German and the Spaniard cocked their muskets and exchanged a knowing, confident look.

"Alfred, kill the colonel if we won't succeed, and whoever remains standing. Do not let any of those froggy bastards escape." Before he and his six redcoats disappeared into the underbrush, he added, "And lads, stay out of sight."

Alfred went where he was told.

* * *

The wind became violent, gusting in short waves, changing its direction every second. The intense downdraft of air spread on the ground and whirled clouds of dirt and tufts of grass. The trees swayed.

Then came the rain. The first raindrops hit the pines and stones before they melted into an impenetrable curtain of water. A fork of lightning broke the darkness and split the sky in half.

"Ready," Alfred heard Arthur's command. "Aim," flat, calm, unemotional. "Fire," in a voice scarcely above a whisper, followed by immediate musket fire, and another one, and another. The musket shots were coming in an erratic rhythm, like spits of an ancient beast.

All this water, this mud, this haze, this weariness, Alfred's vision was a blur enlightened only by the strafe. He prayed for a steady hand, precise shots and quick kills, to be able to take out as many Frogs as possible as fast as he could. He wasn't going to stop until there was nothing more to slay.

The fifty rain-soaked French soldiers were taken by surprise. The strobes of Arthur's and Gilbert's united volley provided targets for two inaccurate musket shots, the French shooters falling to their knees in a heartbeat. Darkness veiled the killing grounds again, punctuated by screams of pain, confused hollering and the rustling of armed men in movement.

Then the pattern repeated itself: musket fire, creating flashes of light, illuminating a tableau of faces and another murderous volley of shots. When the Spaniard's muskets silenced, blackness flooded the wood. Alfred waited, then picked his target and fired, killing a French soldier with a shot to the chest. Frankly, Alfred had thought that it would be more difficult to take a man's life. And the staccato resumed. This time, however, a few French soldiers got their hands upon their guns and fired back.

Alfred knelt, out of the line of fire. "Reload!" he shouted. _Speed is the key._

Shots had cut through the air; some of them hitting the trunks of the pines swinging in the wind, burrowing under their thick bark; bursts of fire lit the sludgy soil below Alfred's feet. All the space around suddenly became repugnant, malignant like some disease.

As Arthur's redcoats answered back, Alfred ripped the small paper cartridge off with his teeth. The smell and taste of powder filled his senses. He poured the powder into the smooth barrel of his muzzle-loaded musket; followed by a lead ball. With help of a ramrod he pushed it all deep into the barrel. Others had done the same; without a thought; without reluctance. Like semi-clockwork beings – still partially human and partly mechanical.

"Fire at will!" Alfred heard Arthur's command and lifted his Brown Bess. _Oh God,_ he prayed, _let it not misfire._ He aimed and pulled the trigger. A fat white Frog ran directly into the swirls of gun powder and lead. A scream, and it was over.

From this moment on, Alfred never stopped moving. He strode rather than ran, staying just inside the brush, offering only glimpses of himself to the remaining French soldiers, his group flanking him as he changed his pace and direction repeatedly, ducking and weaving, firing and loading while moving. He never gave the Frogs a stationary target, especially one marked by fire and billowing smoke from his flintlock. It was an Indian tactic and it worked.

Alfred ducked to the side as a volley of enemy shots tore into the spot marked by his own musket fire. A young French soldier tracked him with his barrel, about to fire. Alfred suddenly stopped dead and reversed direction. The Frenchman fired and missed.

In the chaos of fire and blood, Alfred caught a glimpse of Arthur holding his musket by the barrel and swinging it through the air, slamming its stock into the side of his foe's head.

"Got that bugger!" Arthur screamed. He swapped the bloodied musket with Feliciano's and fired, dropping another Frenchman. Arthur's aide-de-camp, a sweet chestnut-haired boy who came to British America with his hot-headed brother, was weeping as he loaded and handed the primed musket to Arthur who fired and killed a French sergeant with a shot to the throat. Alfred could see that too.

_This is a different Arthur, a vicious, savage Arthur, killing with stunning brutality,_ Alfred found himself thinking.

Feliciano finished reloading, swapped muskets with Arthur again, and the both of them vanished out of Alfred's sight when the French colonel stepped between them and Alfred's view, slashing with his sword and still shouting commands at his priming and reloading and fleeing soldiers.

Alfred's heart was beating violently. _Please God... help me,_ he prayed. _Don't… don't let me fail my men._

Alfred's body was hurting from the engagement. Every his muscle was burning, screaming in protest as he lunged forward. He ran. He ran as fast as his legs allowed him. He ran as if running was the only means of his existence. He jumped over a fallen, rotting tree trunk, reloaded and aimed directly between the French colonel's eyes. Alfred could have sighted that damn white and blue coat with golden buttons from miles away! Teeth clenching, he placed his finger on the trigger and prepared to fire…

… between the Frenchman's eyes…

... those blue, blue eyes.

_Wait._

Something was wrong.

A distant thought crept into Alfred's mind.

Alfred couldn't believe what he was seeing.

_Matthew?_

To be continued...

Bavaria


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me. Thank you my dear Schauspielerinnen for beta-editing.

* * *

**Broken Love**

**Chapter 3**

* * *

'Seven of my sweet loves thy knife  
Has bereavèd of their life.  
Their marble tombs I built with tears,  
And with cold and shuddering fears.

'Seven more loves weep night and day  
Round the tombs where my loves lay,  
And seven more loves attend each night  
Around my couch with torches bright.

William Blake

"Matthew?" Alfred managed to blurt out. He slowed down, stumbled, then eventually came to a stop. He could well imagine the dumbfounded look on his face right now; it must have been hilarious.

His body gave up. It didn't feel alive anymore, more like a sack full of potatoes. Alfred fell down to his knees, loosing his grip on the musket. His eyes were burning. He could only guess it was either the rain, the sweat or perhaps tears. Alfred didn't remember when the last time he cried was.

The flare at the end of a barrel stole his attention. Something hammered into him with intense force. Plain shock mixed with sharp pain shot throughout his body. The sounds of the battle around him died down as a warm mist raced in and swallowed him. With almost infant curiosity Alfred examined the wound in his side.

He was not afraid.

Fresh blood spread quickly on his uniform… dark red... so warm.

"That Frog must be one hell of a shooter," Alfred murmured under his breath and allowed himself to shut his eyes for a minute. When he opened them again, he was staring at the thunderous sky. The grass was soft and wet with rain; its long stalks brushed his ears and neck. Suddenly, all those months spent in the field caught up with him. He was so tired, so goddamn tired. He hadn't slept in ages. At least he thought so.

A movement in the corner of his eye brought Alfred out of his silent reverie. Something rattled as it fell into the grass next to him. Alfred raked together the last pieces of his strength merely to turn his head – and he saw, thankfully, an acquaintance, a very well-known face – Arthur's aide-de-camp.

Alfred stretched out his hand. "Feliciano." Every move caused him incredible pain.

Feliciano took Alfred's hand. "Stay with me, Alfred," he spoke softly, almost pleadingly, his eyes red-rimmed with tears. "Alfred, please."

"I'm trying," Alfred whispered, shifting his gaze from the young boy's face to his left shoulder, shredded and bloody. "You're hurt."

"It...," Feliciano choked on his tears. "It's nothing," he said with a thin, trembling voice, never loosening his iron grip on Alfred's hand.

Alfred blinked a few times. The cold, autumn rain kept falling down onto his face. The lights of battle – the strobes of now-sporadic musket shots illuminated the woods above him now and then.

"Don't close your eyes, Alfred. Don't...," came Feliciano's boyish voice again. It faded and grew and faded again.

Strength was leaking out of Alfred fast. But Alfred kept holding onto Feliciano's voice, onto that life which was flowing through his fingers. Until the darkness began to feel comfortable, luring him, pulling him deeper into its embrace. And then his world ceased to exist.

To be continued...

Bavaria


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me. Thank you my dear Schauspielerinnen for beta-editing.

* * *

******Broken Love**

**Chapter 4**

* * *

'And seven more loves in my bed  
Crown with wine my mournful head,  
Pitying and forgiving all  
Thy transgressions great and small.

'When wilt thou return and view  
My loves, and them to life renew?  
When wilt thou return and live?  
When wilt thou pity as I forgive?'

William Blake

It was a rather balmy day in August. Woodlands – beautiful and untamed; soaring old-growth elms arched over riverside maples along the shores of a gently curving, deep-water river. The water was clear, with fields of floating lily pads, each with a stark white flower rising from it.

Upstream were the swamps. Hundreds of birds sung their songs there. Shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy, cutting through the hanging moss, falling onto soft, swaying ferns that covered the higher ground.

Their house was built between the banks of the river and the deep green of the swamps. It was a good, fertile land, hacked out of the wilderness. The perfectly tended fields were ripe with barley, hops, alfalfa and wheat. Matthew worked one of the fields, rhythmically swinging his scythe through the barley.

The house, built of native brick, was well-constructed and well-maintained. There was a barn and a workshop. It was a home of wealth.

Alfred, strong and handsome, walked out of the woods with a musket in his hand and a dozen quails over his shoulder.

Matthew lifted his eyes and saw him. He threw down his scythe and tore down a path, running as fast as he could, stumbling, then regaining his feet.

"I wish I'd spent more time with you," Alfred said to him apologetically after Matthew had caught up with him. "Of all the things I regret, this is the one I regret the most."

Matthew threw himself into his arms, embracing him. Then Matthew stepped back and they exchanged warm but uneasy smiles, and Alfred saw it: _He wants me, _he realized._ He loves me. Not as brothers love each other. As lovers do._

Matthew took Alfred´s hand and they walked through the field. The barley rattled rhythmically with the wind and their movements. "Don't give up on me yet," Matthew told him after a while. "Don't forget who I am."

"What are you talking about, Matthew?" Alfred asked, clueless. "I know who you are. I know your name. I know your..." A distant thunder cut though everything he wanted to say. Alfred looked curiously at the cloudless sky.

Matthew's grip on Alfred's hand tightened. "Breathe, Alfred."

Whispers in the dark; Alfred heard them with great clarity, _I remember his name. I remember his face. He was family just as you are. And yet, here we are._

Another roll of thunder. The ground began to shake. These sounds became deeper, more ominous. A cacophony of shots and screams. Alfred knew them. Somehow. It was the distant booms of cannon and the pattering wave of hundreds of muskets firing.

Both brothers noticed the change.

"Matthew?"

"Breathe," Matthew reiterated. "I don't want to live without you. Breathe."

_Breathe._

Alfred took a deep breath. His lungs burned as they fought for air. For a short-lived moment he thought he saw Arthur staring down at him, a cleft between his thick eyebrows as usual.

"Can you breathe, lad?" Arthur spoke firmly, but Alfred could hear the discontent in his voice. "Take your hands away!" Were there tears in his eyes? "Oh you stupid, stupid boy."

Alfred stirred. "It-it's just a scratch," he said breathlessly. "Help… help m-me up." He tried to sit but convulsed in pain instead and began to sink back as thousands of flaming arrows shot through his abdomen, and a wordless cry tore out of him.

"Stay down!" Arthur lowered him gently to the ground and held him down. "Lieutenant Beilschmidt, get in here!" the Englishman shouted, his voice hoarse and ragged and definitive.

Alfred closed his eyes and fixed his thoughts on his brother he had lost so long ago. _I still feel the same about you though everything has changed and I miss you more than you can imagine. I cannot understand it. You're all that's clean and pure and complete. I regret that we were never together as we planned to be._ "Please stay on at the house and wait for me," he gasped.

"Alfred!"

Blinding darkness surrounded Alfred. His lungs sought for some air, but there was none. He heard hurrying steps and a couple of German words spoken in haste. It was getting harder for him to stay awake. A hand clutched at his nape and the air magically returned. In a sudden rush of panic, he searched for Arthur's face. He caught a glimpse of his bloody hands instead and began to slip away again.

"Alfred! Alfred! Alfred!"

"I'm here," Alfred murmured miserably. "Don't shout at me." Just before he felt his calm come crashing down, thankfully, the fatigue crossed his eyes and he was unable to stop it.

"I've got you. I've got you. You're doing well, my boy. We're going home…" Arthur´s voice trailed away.

"Is he…?" Someone else asked.

_Breathe, Alfred. Breathe._

"Nein," said a resolute voice. "He is breathing... barely, but he is breathing." There was a sound of metal scraping against fabric. "Hold him down."

"Look at all the blood." A man with a strong Spanish accent joined the conversation. "We all know what that means. No one in the world can patch him up now like this."

"Can… can you say that again?" Arthur snapped at the Spaniard. "Take that big, pig face of yours back to your little half-bred gitano friends or I'll scrag you with my bare hands!"

Alfred listened to them and wondered when exactly he stopped calling Arthur 'Father'.

Then jolts of pain, excruciating pain made his body writhe in agony. Lights went out. The curtain fell. A new scene opened: A round, young face, cheerful and light-hearted face framed with golden hair – Alfred saw the small boy who, despite being afraid of the dark, watched the stars with him so fondly. They rode across the sun-soaked fields with the summer wind, arms spread, flying... with the summer wind, strong but not violent, carrying the odor of the ocean. Alfred could hear his voice, _Don't be afraid, be strong_. His soft, childish voice, and a joyful laughter. _You are not alone, Alfred._

_No, I'm not,_ Alfred replied, _Neither are you. No matter where you are, Matthew, no matter what you do,__I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you and bring you home, _as he was sinking into the sunlight.

To be continued...

Bavaria


End file.
